S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,Have known three centuries, poets sing,Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,The swift innumerable spears,The horsemen with their floating hair,And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,Those merry couples dancing in tune,And the white body that lay by mine;But the tale, though words be lighter than air.Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hillWhere passionate Maeve is stony-still;And found On the dove-grey edge of the seaA pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rodeOn a horse with bridle of findrinny;And like a sunset were her lips,A stormy sunset on doomed ships;A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,And with the glimmering crimson glowedOf many a figured embroidery;And it was bound with a pearl-pale shellThat wavered like the summer streams,As her soft bosom rose and fell.

S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said'And every hero droop his head?The hornless deer is not more sadThat many a peaceful moment had,More sleek than any granary mouse,In his own leafy forest houseAmong the waving fields of fern:The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,And on the heroes lying slainOn Gabhra's raven-covered plain;But where are your noble kith and kin,And from what country do you ride?'

'My father and my mother areAengus and Edain, my own nameNiamh, and my country farBeyond the tumbling of this tide.'

'What dream came with you that you cameThrough bitter tide on foam-wet feet?Did your companion wander awayFrom where the birds of Aengus wing?'Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:'I have not yet, war-weary king,Been spoken of with any man;Yet now I choose, for these four feetRan through the foam and ran to thisThat I might have your son to kiss.'

'Were there no better than my sonThat you through all that foam should run?'

'I loved no man, though kings besought,Until the Danaan poets broughtRhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,And now I am dizzy with the thoughtOf all that wisdom and the fameOf battles broken by his hands,Of stories builded by his wordsThat are like coloured Asian birdsAt evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,There was no limb of mine but fellInto a desperate gulph of love!'You only will I wed,' I cried,'And I will make a thousand songs,And set your name all names above,And captives bound with leathern thongsShall kneel and praise you, one by one,At evening in my western dun.'

'O Oisin, mount by me and rideTo shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,And the days pass by like a wayward tune,Where broken faith has never been knownAnd the blushes of first love never have flown;And there I will give you a hundred hounds;No mightier creatures bay at the moon;And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,And a hundred calves and a hundred sheepWhose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,And oil and wine and honey and milk,And always never-anxious sleep;While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,Who when they dance to a fitful measureHave a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,And you shall know the Danaan leisure;And Niamh be with you for a wife.'Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late.Music and love and sleep await,Where I would be when the white moon climbs,The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound meWith her triumphing arms around me,And whispering to herself enwound me;He shook himself and neighed three times:Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,And bid me stay, with many a tear;But we rode out from the human lands.In what far kingdom do you go'Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?Or are you phantoms white as snow,Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,Or down the dewy forest alleys,I chased at morn the flying deer,With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,And broke the heaving ranks of battle!And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,Where are you with your long rough hair?You go not where the red deer feeds,Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:I know not if days passed or hours,And Niamh sang continuallyDanaan songs, and their dewy showersOf pensive laughter, unhuman sound,Lulled weariness, and softly roundMy human sorrow her white arms wound.We galloped; now a hornless deerPassed by us, chased by a phantom houndAll pearly white, save one red ear;And now a lady rode like the windWith an apple of gold in her tossing hand;And a beautiful young man followed behindWith quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.'Were these two born in the Danaan land,Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

'Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,And sighing bowed her gentle head,And sighing laid the pearly tipOf one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shoneIn the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,And clouds atrayed their rank on rankAbout his fading crimson ball:The floor of Almhuin's hosting hallWas not more level than the sea,As, full of loving fantasy,And with low murmurs, we rode on,Where many a trumpet-twisted shellThat in immortal silence sleepsDreaming of her own melting hues,Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.But now a wandering land breeze cameAnd a far sound of feathery quires;It seemed to blow from the dying flame,They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.The horse towards the music raced,Neighing along the lifeless waste;Like sooty fingers, many a treeRose ever out of the warm sea;And they were trembling ceaselessly,As though they all were beating time,Upon the centre of the sun,To that low laughing woodland rhyme.And, now our wandering hours were done,We cantered to the shore, and knewThe reason of the trembling trees:Round every branch the song-birds flew,Or clung thereon like swarming bees;While round the shore a million stoodLike drops of frozen rainbow light,And pondered in a soft vain moodUpon their shadows in the tide,And told the purple deeps their pride,And murmured snatches of delight;And on the shores were many boatsWith bending sterns and bending bows,And carven figures on their prowsOf bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,And swans with their exultant throats:And where the wood and waters meetWe tied the horse in a leafy clump,And Niamh blew three merry notesOut of a little silver trump;And then an answering whispering flewOver the bare and woody land,A whisper of impetuous feet,And ever nearer, nearer grew;And from the woods rushed out a bandOf men and ladies, hand in hand,And singing, singing all together;Their brows were white as fragrant milk,Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,And trimmed with many a crimson feather;And when they saw the cloak I woreWas dim with mire of a mortal shore,They fingered it and gazed on meAnd laughed like murmurs of the sea;But Niamh with a swift distressBid them away and hold their peace;And when they heard her voice they ranAnd knelt there, every girl and man,And kissed, as they would never cease,Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.She bade them bring us to the hallWhere Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,A Druid dream of the end of daysWhen the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy waysWhere drops of dew in myriads fall,And tangled creepers every hourBlossom in some new crimson flower,And once a sudden laughter sprangFrom all their lips, and once they sangTogether, while the dark woods rang,And made in all their distant parts,With boom of bees in honey-marts,A rumour of delighted hearts.And once a lady by my sideGave me a harp, and bid me sing,And touch the laughing silver string;But when I sang of human joyA sorrow wrapped each merry face,And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,Until one came, a tearful boy;'A sadder creature never steptThan this strange human bard,' he cried;And caught the silver harp away,And, weeping over the white strings, hurledIt down in a leaf-hid, hollow placeThat kept dim waters from the sky;And each one said, with a long, long sigh,'O saddest harp in all the world,Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to whereA beautiful young man dreamed withinA house of wattles, clay, and skin;One hand upheld his beardless chin,And one a sceptre flashing outWild flames of red and gold and blue,Like to a merry wandering routOf dancers leaping in the air;And men and ladies knelt them thereAnd showed their eyes with teardrops dim,And with low murmurs prayed to him,And kissed the sceptre with red lips,And touched it with their finger-tips.He held that flashing sceptre up.'Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,And fills with stars night's purple cup,And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,And stirs the young kid's budding horn,And makes the infant ferns unwrap,And for the peewit paints his cap,And rolls along the unwieldy sun,And makes the little planets run:And if joy were not on the earth,There were an end of change and birth,And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,And in some gloomy barrow lieFolded like a frozen fly;Then mock at Death and Time with glancesAnd wavering arms and wandering dances.

'Men's hearts of old were drops of flameThat from the saffron morning came,Or drops of silver joy that fellOut of the moon's pale twisted shell;But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,And toss and turn in narrow caves;But here there is nor law nor rule,Nor have hands held a weary tool;And here there is nor Change nor Death,But only kind and merry breath,For joy is God and God is joy.'With one long glance for girl and boyAnd the pale blossom of the moon,He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden danceWe mocked at Time and Fate and ChanceAnd swept out of the wattled hallAnd came to where the dewdrops fallAmong the foamdrops of the sea,And there we hushed the revelry;And, gathering on our brows a frown,Bent all our swaying bodies down,And to the waves that glimmer byThat sloping green De Danaan sodSang, 'God is joy and joy is God,And things that have grown sad are wicked,And things that fear the dawn of the morrowOr the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicketThe damask roses, bloom on bloom,Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.And bending over them softly said,Bending over them in the dance,With a swift and friendly glanceFrom dewy eyes: 'Upon the deadFall the leaves of other roses,On the dead dim earth encloses:But never, never on our graves,Heaped beside the glimmering waves,Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.For neither Death nor Change comes near us,And all listless hours fear us,And we fear no dawning morrow,Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;The ever-summered solitudes;Until the tossing arms grew stillUpon the woody central hill;And, gathered in a panting band,We flung on high each waving hand,And sang unto the starry broods.In our raised eyes there flashed a glowOf milky brightness to and froAs thus our song arose: 'You stars,Across your wandering ruby carsShake the loose reins: you slaves of God.He rules you with an iron rod,He holds you with an iron bond,Each one woven to the other,Each one woven to his brotherLike bubbles in a frozen pond;But we in a lonely land abideUnchainable as the dim tide,With hearts that know nor law nor rule,And hands that hold no wearisome tool,Folded in love that fears no morrow,Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred yearsI chased upon that woody shoreThe deer, the badger, and the boar.O patrick! for a hundred yearsAt evening on the glimmering sands,Beside the piled-up hunting spears,These now outworn and withered handsWrestled among the island bands.O patrick! for a hundred yearsWe went a-fishing in long boatsWith bending sterns and bending bows,And carven figures on their prowsOf bitterns and fish-eating stoats.O patrick! for a hundred yearsThe gentle Niamh was my wife;But now two things devour my life;The things that most of all I hate:Fasting and prayers.

S. Patrick. Tell on.

Oisin. Yes, yes,For these were ancient Oisin's fateLoosed long ago from Heaven's gate,For his last days to lie in wait.When one day by the tide I stood,I found in that forgetfulnessOf dreamy foam a staff of woodFrom some dead warrior's broken lance:I tutned it in my hands; the stainsOf war were on it, and I wept,Remembering how the Fenians steptAlong the blood-bedabbled plains,Equal to good or grievous chance:Thereon young Niamh softly cameAnd caught my hands, but spake no wordSave only many times my name,In murmurs, like a frighted bird.We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,And found the horse and bridled him,For we knew well the old was over.I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dimWith all the ancient sorrow of men';And wrapped in dreams rode out againWith hoofs of the pale findrinnyOver the glimmering purple sea.Under the golden evening light,The Immortals moved among thc fountainsBy rivers and the woods' old night;Some danced like shadows on the mountainsSome wandered ever hand in hand;Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,Each forehead like an obscure starBent down above each hooked knee,And sang, and with a dreamy gazeWatched where the sun in a saffron blazeWas slumbering half in the sea-ways;And, as they sang, the painted birdsKept time with their bright wings and feet;Like drops of honey came their words,But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;He hears the storm in the chimney above,And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,While his heart still dreams of battle and love,And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.The hare grows old as she plays in the sunAnd gazes around her with eyes of brightness;Before the swift things that she dreamed of were doneShe limps along in an aged whiteness;A storm of birds in the Asian treesLike tulips in the air a-winging,And the gentle waves of the summer seas,That raise their heads and wander singing,Must murmur at last, "Unjust, unjust";And "My speed is a weariness," falters the mouse,And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.But the love-dew dims our eyes till the dayWhen God shall come from the Sea with a sighAnd bid the stars drop down from the sky,And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'